by Radclyffe
“She’s never asked me why I do it.”
The seeming non sequitur did not disturb Michael. She reached for the strainer for the French press and pushed the coffee grounds to the bottom of the pot. As she poured steaming, rich coffee into two mugs, she said, “She’s probably waiting for you to tell her.”
“You asked.”
Michael crossed to the breakfast island and handed Sandy the coffee. Edging onto the adjacent stool, she blew on the steam wafting from her mug. “I’m not in love with you.”
Sandy’s sipped the coffee and considered Michael’s words. “That changes things, doesn’t it.”
“Being in love?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh, yes. It changes everything.”
“The only thing I had that was worth anything was my body.” Sandy said it matter-of-factly, without rancor. “I could’ve traded it for drugs and a place to flop—being stoned would’ve made some things a lot easier…well, at least, I wouldn’t have known if they were bad or not.” She laughed hollowly. “But I decided I’d rather have the money and maybe a life.”
“It looks like you made the right choice.” Michael leaned past Sandy for a basket of scones and drew it near. She indicated the pastries to Sandy. “Hungry?”
“Yeah.” Sandy helped herself. “Dell doesn’t like it.”
“I imagine,” Michael said quietly. “It must be very dangerous, isn’t it?”
Sandy shrugged. “Maybe, if you’re not careful. I’m careful.” She sighed. “But I haven’t really been working for a while.”
“You quit?”
“I don’t know about that,” Sandy said hastily. “I mean, I have to make money, so I’m not sure I quit quit. But…it really bothers her. And…I know what happens sooner or later to everyone in the life.”
“Does she know?”
Sandy shook her head.
“How come you haven’t told her?”
“Because what if I go back?” Sandy broke off a piece of the scone and nibbled on it. “She’ll be…disappointed.”
Michael placed her coffee cup carefully on the breakfast bar. She leaned forward, curling her fingers around Sandy’s forearm, stroking softly. “She loves you. She won’t stop.”
Eyes clouded by fears she couldn’t voice, Sandy finally said hesitantly, “You know, tomorrow is the ceremony for her promotion thing. It’s kind of a big deal.”
“Mmm. I know. Are you going?”
Sandy shrugged. “She asked me to.”
“Well?”
Sandy squirmed and looked past Michael at nothing in particular. “I dunno.”
“What’s stopping you?” Michael persisted, keeping her hand lightly on Sandy’s arm.
“I won’t fit in.” She blew out an irritated breath. “You think I can go there and everyone won’t know I’m a whore? Jesus, like that should matter to me.”
“That’s not who you are,” Michael said firmly, never raising her voice. “You’re not defined by what you’ve had to do to survive. Nor by the mistakes that you may have made.”
Sandy narrowed her eyes at the note of fierce intensity in Michael’s cultured tones. She knew that appearances rarely told the whole story; some of the most violent johns were well-dressed, well-spoken men. Michael seemed like the most together woman Sandy had ever met, but Sandy could still hear the pain in her voice. Something or someone had hurt her badly once.
“I don’t have anything to wear.”
Michael laughed. “Well, that’s something we can easily fix.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Michael stood and slipped her hand into Sandy’s, giving her a tug. When Sandy stepped to the floor, Michael wrapped an arm around her waist. “Let’s go shopping.”
*
“You don’t say anything unless I ask for your report,” Rebecca said with finality.
Sloan snarled.
“Or you don’t sit in.”
“Okay, okay,” Sloan muttered. “Jesus.”
Watts, looking pleased, said nothing as the three of them walked through the detective squad room toward Captain Henry’s office.
Sloan eyed him dangerously. “You have something to say?”
His grin broadening, Watts held up his hands in surrender. “Not me.”
The fact that Rebecca pushed open the door to Henry’s office forestalled Sloan’s retort. Sloan looked past her to the men in the room and stiffened. Henry sat in his customary place behind his broad desk. Avery Clark, clad in the federal agent’s requisite uniform of dark suit, pale blue shirt, and rep tie, leaned against the file cabinets a few feet from Henry’s desk with his arms crossed over his chest. His gaze flickered over each of the new arrivals as they entered the room, his expression registering nothing.
“Have a seat,” Henry said, indicating the mismatched, armless chairs fronting his desk.
Rebecca and Watts complied, but Sloan moved to the wall opposite Clark and rested an elbow on top of a small watercooler. From there, she could look directly at Clark, which she did. She’d learned long ago never to give field advantage to an adversary, and she wasn’t at all convinced that Clark was on their team.
“You’ve had some developments in the case, Lieutenant?” Henry asked of Rebecca.
“In one aspect of the case, yes, sir. We believe we’ve identified the source of the leak in the department. We also think the same individual was involved in the attempt on Sloan’s life.”
Henry’s eyes glinted. “Let’s hear it.”
“Sloan?” Rebecca requested.
Still leaning against the watercooler, Sloan reviewed their investigation, starting with the premise that only those people who’d had advance knowledge of the plan to trap one of the midlevel Internet porn distributors could have fingered her for execution. She described the process by which they’d eliminated the suspects, conveniently leaving out the fact that Henry had been one of them.
“A few days ago, I found several computer traces that led back to Beecher as the likely source of the network intrusions. In all likelihood, someone is accessing his computer regularly from a remote location and using it as the portal into the entire law enforcement system. Your files are open books.”
Looking as if he had been carved from stone, Henry angled his body toward Clark. “We’ll need to go right to the district attorney, seeing that Beecher’s one of hers. This is going to be very messy.”
“Computer evidence alone often isn’t enough to convince a DA to bring charges.” Clark spoke softly, his posture relaxed. He didn’t look at Sloan when he spoke but directed his comments to Henry as if they were alone in the room.
Sloan stiffened and took a step forward. “How did I know you—”
“Sir,” Rebecca interjected, cutting off Sloan in midsentence, “we’re in the process of gathering further documentation of Beecher’s involvement in the Internet pornography operation.”
Watts cast her a sidelong glance, but said nothing.
“We only wanted to bring you up to speed on these developments in case things move quickly and we need a warrant.” Glancing at Clark and then back to Henry, she added, “Appreciating, sir, that this situation could be…delicate.”
Everyone in the room knew that only Clark was immune from the politics of this situation and that Henry was likely to be the messenger first in line to be shot.
“And I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant,” Henry said dryly. He turned to Sloan. “How solid is your evidence?”
“Rock,” Sloan said flatly.
“Good.” Henry nodded as if pleased before addressing Rebecca. “I’ll give you the weekend to put together a package I can take to—”
“I’m not so sure we want to take Beecher out of the picture,” Clark interjected quietly.
“Why aren’t I surprised,” Sloan snapped.
“I’m not saying not to take him,” Clark said. “But for now, he’s our best chance of discovering who’s really behind this. He’s obviously not working solo.”<
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“So we bring him in and sweat him,” Watts suggested. “A guy like that, not used to rough handling? Verbally…I mean,” he said with a sly smile. “And he’ll tell us everything he knows.”
“You’re probably right, detective.” Clark spoke with the merest hint of condescension. “But what about what he doesn’t know? Once we have him, whoever is running him will start covering their tracks. If we somehow lose that connection, all we have is a dirty ADA. Small fry.”
“Who was involved in a murder attempt that was almost successful,” Sloan said through gritted teeth. “Beecher needs to go down for that.”
“That and a lot more, Sloan.” Clark finally met her gaze squarely, and for the first time, his voice had lost its friendly edge too. “Have you forgotten how it works?”
Sloan quivered with the effort to contain her temper. “You know I haven’t.”
“Then make the case and set your personal issues aside.”
“My personal issues are still struggling to recover from the hit-and-run.” Sloan’s voice was ice.
When Sloan took another step in Clark’s direction, Rebecca bolted up, blocking Sloan’s path. “That’s exactly what we plan to do, Captain. Nail this down tight. We’ve got Mr. McBride, our other computer consultant, and Detective Mitchell working on additional evidence tying Beecher to the pornography operation. Watts and I have been tailing him, but we could use some extra help on that.”
“Done. I’ll assign twenty-four-hour coverage.”
“We’ll need photos,” Clark said, his tone calm and even again.
For the first time, Henry looked annoyed. “We do know how to run surveillance in Philadelphia, Agent Clark.”
Clark merely smiled. “Of course.”
“What else have you got cooking, Lieutenant?” Henry asked.
Rebecca lifted her shoulder. “We’re exploring a number of avenues, sir.”
A flicker of amusement crossed Henry’s face and was quickly gone. “Then I’ll expect you to keep me apprised of your progress along those lines.”
“Of course,” Rebecca replied. With a nod to Clark, she moved toward the door, Sloan and Watts close behind. Once outside, with the door firmly closed behind them, she muttered, “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’ll be in the ESU,” Sloan snapped and strode away.
Watts looked after her and grunted. “She’s gonna snap Clark in two someday.”
“We need to see she doesn’t,” Rebecca said quietly.
“Us and whose army?”
“She’ll hold,” Rebecca said, hoping that she was right.
Chapter Sixteen
“You look like you’re walking more easily,” Catherine observed as Mitchell crossed the room to her customary seat in the chair opposite Catherine’s desk. “How’s the leg doing?”
“It’s fine. Almost good as new.”
Even had she not been trained to hear the unspoken words and decipher the subtle signals that people telegraphed without meaning to, Catherine would have been hard-pressed to miss Mitchell’s distress. The normally strong planes of her face were hollow and drawn, her vibrant deep blue eyes shadowed and dull. Even the timbre of her voice rang with pain.
“You’ll be seeing Dr. Torveau for another evaluation tomorrow?”
Mitchell nodded, almost too weary to speak. She drew a breath and forced herself to deal with the one issue that really mattered. “I need the paperwork filled out for the lieutenant. About my duty status.”
“Yes, I know.” Catherine pushed her chair back a few inches from her desk and crossed her legs, relaxed but attentive. With a gentle smile, she asked, “I take it you’re ready to return?”
“Definitely. I’m going stir-crazy.”
“But you’ve been keeping busy, correct? Working with Jason?”
Again, Mitchell signaled assent with a twitch of her shoulder.
“Dellon,” Catherine said quietly. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”
Mitchell considered her options, which were few—that is, in addition to the truth. Denial, lying, or evasion. She contemplated those choices. Perhaps if it had been the first time she’d been in this situation with Catherine Rawlings, she wouldn’t even have hesitated. She would have said “nothing.” Things had changed, and she hadn’t even noticed. It was harder for her to keep what bothered her inside. It was harder for her to keep people on the outside. Part of that was a result of the support she had gotten the first time she’d been forced into therapy with Catherine. Despite her initial discomfort and anger at her powerlessness, she’d found understanding and an unexpected surcease from pain when she’d shared her feelings.
And then there was Sandy.
Sandy, who had managed to step over, circumnavigate, or simply crash through every barrier she’d imposed, with a single sharp word or tender glance. Last night—last night all she’d wanted was for Sandy to keep touching her, because with Sandy inside her, there was no room for anything else. Mitchell took a shuddering breath.
“I was forced to resign my commission in the Army.”
Although the revelation was completely unexpected, Catherine’s expression indicated only compassionate interest and none of her surprise. “Forced. So it wasn’t voluntary?”
“In theory, I had a choice. It was simple—take an honorable discharge or be court-martialed.” Mitchell laughed hollowly and shook her head. “Some choice.”
“What were the circumstances?”
Mitchell rubbed her face vigorously with both hands and then dropped her arms back to the armrests, her fingers limp. “I assaulted a superior officer.”
“Male or female?”
“A man.”
“Assaulted how?”
“I punched him. Hard enough to put him in the hospital overnight.”
“Tell me how that came about.” Catherine had seen Mitchell with Rebecca and knew how deeply ingrained her respect for hierarchical authority was. Whatever had prompted her to break rank in such an excessive fashion must have been extreme.
“He was trying to…he forced himself…on a woman.”
“You stopped a rape?” Catherine asked incredulously. “And for that, you were threatened with court-martial?”
“It wasn’t a rape…yet. He was just…” Mitchell swallowed, the memory still so clear. Her stomach churned with rage and revulsion, just as it had that night. “He was just touching her.” He had his hands on her breasts, his mouth on her neck. He was pressing himself into her.
“Against her will?”
Mitchell nodded.
“Then I don’t… I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” Catherine said intently. “Why were you at fault?”
“She was my lover.”
Oh, Dellon. Catherine rose and walked around the desk to the chair beside Mitchell’s. She did not touch her, but angled in the seat so that she could look directly into Mitchell’s face. “Tell me about her.”
*
Laughing, Michael stepped out of the elevator, her arms filled with packages. Sandy followed close behind, saying, “I can’t believe the look on her face when you told her I was your girlfriend.”
“Well,” Michael said, still irritated by the saleswoman’s superior attitude, “she was so clearly trying to eavesdrop on our conversation, I just thought I’d help her out.”
“You were great…” Sandy trailed off as she noticed the woman standing across the room by the windows. “Hey, Sloan.”
“Hi, Sandy.”
Surprised, Michael deposited the spoils of their trip on the sofa and went to her lover. “Darling? I didn’t expect to see you this afternoon.”
Sloan smiled and kissed Michael’s cheek. “Missed you last night.”
Michael brushed her fingers through Sloan’s hair, studying her lover’s eyes. “Did you get any sleep at all?”
“A few hours.”
From across the room, Sandy called, “I’m gonna unpack these and then take off for a while. I have some errands to run for Dell.�
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“Don’t put them where she might see them,” Michael said. “Use the closet down the hall.”
Sandy grinned. “Gotcha.”
Once alone, Michael twined her arms around Sloan’s waist and settled against her. “Tired?”
“No.” Sloan smoothed her hands up and down Michael’s back, loving the feel of silk sliding over even softer skin, reveling in the warmth beneath her fingertips. When she’d left Henry’s office and gone back to the ESU, she’d thought she’d be able to work. Thought the work would quench the anger, as it had so often in the past, but this time was different. She couldn’t concentrate. All she’d been able to think about had been Michael—almost dying, and the horrible void that had filled her heart and mind for those few terrible hours. Unconsciously, she tightened her hold on the woman in her arms.
Michael leaned back enough to look into Sloan’s eyes. There was turmoil in their depths. “What is it?”
Sloan rested her forehead against Michael’s. “Nothing. I love you.”
“What did you do this morning?” When no answer was forthcoming, Michael stroked the back of Sloan’s neck and kissed her gently. “Sloan?”
“Just a briefing with Rebecca and some of the hotshots in the department.”
“Problems?”
Sloan shook her head.
“Progress, then?”
“Some.” Sloan stiffened as she thought about what she had learned. “I know who hurt you. At least who set it up.”
Michael gasped. “How?”
“I tracked him through the computer system at Police Plaza.”
“You know his name?”
“Yes.”
“A police officer?”
“An ADA. He’s probably Mob connected—I don’t know how just yet.”
“Has he been arrested?”
“No.” The bitterness in Sloan’s voice lay heavy in the air.
Michael cupped her fingers along the sharp angle of Sloan’s jaw, sensitive to the tight muscles quivering beneath the smooth, pale skin. Now she understood why Sloan had come home in the middle of the day, in the middle of a big case. Something she would ordinarily never do. She was in pain. “You know what I’d like?”